I am stuck. I have a deadline of May 19th to finish revising my novel and it won’t let me move forward.
Maybe it’s because I’ve gotten side tracked with writing for the band I play with.
Maybe it’s because the day job has been especially demanding lately.
Maybe it’s because the cottonwood covering the air and earth with it’s gorgeous white balls of fluff causes my throat to close up and my voice to turn husky. (The husband likes the sound of it, but now it’s veering toward a whisper which I don’t think is all that cute.)
Maybe it’s because I got a rejection. (Good grief, I say to myself, one rejection should not stop you!)
One of my wise friends tells me to set the novel aside and come back to it later. I can’t even seem to do that.
So instead I am trying a technique I heard from Elizabeth Gilbert, that guru of creativity and giver of artistic permission slips.
I am running a reverse CT scan on myself. To do this, I slowly scan my consciousness to see if some glimmer of curiosity for my book still exists in the tomography of my creativity. (It’s a reverse scan because I am searching for goodness instead of the disease that the medical world tries to find.)
If you ask, I will let you know if I find any sparkles. I may not. It may be time to let this novel go and move forward.
I’ve got until the 19th to finish scanning.
In the meantime, here are the sparkles of wonder I found while keeping my eyes open in the everyday.
A great day out with the boys at our favorite after-the-beach dinner spot The Spar. A restaurant with Duplos and chess sets can’t be beat.
Of course, the flowers in my yard and on my walks sparkle. Even though spring is biting me in the nose, I adore it as much as ever.
A clarinetist I am sorry I never got to meet. Dr. Michael Lovezzola’s daughter sent me this to go with the piece I wrote recently. I can feel how much she misses him in her photos.
May you find your sparkles,
And one more…
The long legs of my five-year-old when he tries to sit on my lap. His are the bruised legs on top. Mine are underneath with the mismatched socks. I think I’ve got two years before he outgrows me.
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Wish I could help. Once, I was stuck writing a story for my master’s level short story writing class. I had written a convoluted plot that I couldn’t unravel. I lay on the sofa, closed my eyes and asked the Holy Spirit to help me. Within minutes I knew how it should go. I got an A on the story with this note from my professor: Intricate plot for a woman. It was 1973.
Wow! I guess it was 1973 but still! What a thing to say. Thanks for the encouragement and the great story, Martha. Asking for help is another fine idea.
P.S. I’d sure love to read that intricate plot sometime.